Paul knelt on the other side of Rachel. “That’s a good sign, but we need to watch her closely in case she needs CPR,” he said. He checked her pulse and looked up at Donovan. “Get me what’s left of the sedative you gave her along with the syringe you used. I need you to calculate exactly how much you gave her.”
Donovan jumped up and started for the door.
“I also need my medical bag,” Paul called after him.
As soon as Donovan left the room, Mark asked, “Paul, what’s wrong with her?”
“I suspect she overdosed on the sedative that he gave her.” He motioned to the bruises smeared across her face. “With all she’s been through, I imagine her body couldn’t take anything else.”
Mark’s mind flashed on the image of Rachel turning the gun on herself. She had taken all the abuse she could stand, and the sedatives Donovan gave her wanted to finish the job.
“I know you want to be with her, Mark,” Paul said, “but you’re the last person Donovan will want to see near her when he gets back. Go stand against that wall, and don’t move a muscle unless I tell you to.”
“I don’t care what anyone wants. I’m staying with Rachel.” he said. He returned his attention to Rachel.
Paul glanced over his shoulder at the doorway. “There’s not a whole lot we can do for her here but keep her breathing. I don’t have anything that can help with an overdose, so we need to get her to a hospital and fast. Donovan won’t allow that to happen. If you’re determined to see this through, I need your help. Do exactly what I say, when I say, no questions.”
Mark’s forehead creased. “Whatever helps Rachel.”
“Get the blanket from her bed. We need to keep her warm.”
Mark complied, and helped Paul cover Rachel’s body with the comforter from her bed. The sight of her blood against the white of the comforter did not make him feel any better about her condition.
Donovan came back into the room with a large medical bag. He set the supplies down between himself and Paul. He handed Paul a bottle half-filled with liquid and a syringe. On the syringe, he showed Paul how much of the sedative he had given Rachel, and told him she’d had three injections since being back at the estate, in addition to the one at her house.
“That’s way too much,” Paul said. “She’s overdosing.” He rummaged through his medical bag. He pulled out a packaged syringe and a small vial of medicine, and handed both to Mark. “Fill the syringe up to the top.”
Distracted by Donovan’s presence, Mark fumbled with opening the package around the syringe.
Donovan reached for Rachel’s hand. “Don’t die on me, Rachel,” Donovan said, with a strained voice. “I love you more than anything. Please don’t die on me.”
Agony ripped through Mark when Donovan spoke those words to Rachel. It wasn’t right that Donovan was next to her, holding her hand, coaxing her to live when he was guilty of drugging her and causing her overdose. Hatred radiated from every part of Mark, driven by the strong conviction that if Rachel weren’t unconscious, he would kill Donovan with his bare hands.
“Mark,” Paul said. “I need that syringe now.”
Mark tore his eyes away from Donovan and stuck the needle in the vial. After liquid filled the syringe, Mark pulled the needle out of the vial. He held the syringe out over Rachel’s body for Paul to take.
Paul did not take the syringe. Instead he said, “Bring it over here to me.” He rubbed an alcohol swab over the crook of Rachel’s elbow.
Confused by Paul’s direction, but remembering his admonishment not to ask questions, Mark got to his feet and walked around Rachel’s body until he stood beside Paul. He held the syringe down to Paul, but again, he did not take it from Mark’s hands.
“Donovan, I need more blankets,” Paul said. “I don’t think this one will keep her warm enough.”
“Anything else?” Donovan asked.
“No, but please hurry.”
As Donovan stood, Paul rose to his feet as well. Donovan took two steps toward the door and Paul pounced, tackling him from behind. Donovan landed facedown on the floor, and Paul covered him with his body. “Mark!” Paul shouted.
Mark understood. He rushed over to Paul, who struggled to keep the thrashing man below him subdued. “Where do I use it?”
“In his arm,” he said. Paul shifted his weight, and pressed Donovan’s head into the floor with his forearm. He used his free hand to pin Donovan’s arm to the ground.
Mark closed the needle in on the upper part of Donovan’s arm. Paul moved again to keep Donovan’s arm from jerking. Mark jammed the needle into Donovan’s arm through his shirt and pushed down on the plunger. Donovan groaned, and Mark pulled the needle out.
“The gun,” Paul said. “Get the gun.”
Mark went to where Rachel’s gun had landed near the bed and grabbed it. He raced back to Paul.
“His head!” Paul said.
Mark panicked. “I...I can’t shoot him.”
“Not shoot him. Hit him. Check the safety to make sure the gun won’t fire.” At Mark’s confused look, he added, “Red is dead.”
Mark found the safety on the side of the gun, and flipped it so the red dot no longer showed. He looked at Donovan’s crimson face, and anger rushed through Mark’s veins, giving him strength to raise the gun and smash the grip against the side of Donovan’s head. When Donovan did not stop moving, hatred drove Mark’s arm to bring the gun down on Donovan’s skull three more times, without thought as to the consequences of his actions.
Donovan ceased movement, and his body slumped to the floor. Paul wriggled off Donovan and stood up.
Mark stepped back. Blood flowed from an open wound above Donovan’s ear. “I didn’t...did I?”
“Kill him?” Paul asked. He looked down at Donovan. “Nah. You did knock him out pretty good and that sedative you administered will keep him out for awhile.” He walked back over to Rachel and checked her pulse. “Donovan’s cellphone is in the pocket inside his jacket. Get it, quick.”
Donovan’s suit jacket was on the floor near Rachel’s bed. Mark found the cellphone right where Paul said it was, and took it to Paul.
“Thanks,” Paul said. He pushed some buttons on the phone and put it to his ear. “You did good, Mark. Real good.”
Mark crouched next to Rachel. She seemed the same, shallow breathing and pallid skin in the few spots that weren’t covered with a bruise. Mark put his hand on her face. Her cold, clammy skin struck Mark’s heart. “Stay with me, Rach. We’re going to get you out of this place for good, but you have to stay with me, baby.”
Paul spoke to a 911 operator, saying Rachel was unconscious from an overdose of sedatives, and her pulse was weak. Mark also heard the words, “kidnap victims.”
Paul pressed a button on the phone, disconnecting the operator. “Now, we wait. Keep her warm, and keep checking her pulse and breathing. Do you know CPR?”
Mark had taken a class several years ago, but didn’t remember anything from it except push on the chest and breathe in the mouth. Guessing how to do CPR wouldn’t help Rachel, though. “I don’t remember how to.”
“It’s okay, Mark.” Paul tossed Mark his radio. “If her condition changes, call me on this. If she stops breathing or her breathing slows at all, let me know and I’ll come right away to give her CPR. I’m going to meet the ambulance and police to make sure they get let in. The last thing we need are overzealous security guards getting into a shootout with police.”
After Paul left, Mark crossed his legs and settled down next to Rachel. He held her hand, and kept his eyes glued on her face. He didn’t know what else to do but talk to her. Every so often, he stopped talking to her to check her breathing.
He told her everything he had ever wanted to say to her, everything she needed to hear. Most importantly, he assured her that he wouldn’t let anything bad ever happen to her again. He didn’t know if she could hear him, but he hoped by telling her she still had something worth living for, it would help her survive
.
Mark leaned over to get a closer look at Rachel. Her lips took on a bluish tint that stood out against her pale skin. He knew that meant she wasn’t getting enough oxygen, but he didn’t know how to help her.
As Mark reached for the radio to call Paul, the pounding of footfalls grew louder in the hallway outside her door. Paul rushed into Rachel’s room followed by paramedics. Mark forced himself to move away from Rachel. The paramedics went to work, checking her vital signs and asking Paul questions about her overdose and medical history. Two other paramedics simultaneously worked on Donovan. Mark wanted to tell them not to bother.
Five police officers filed into the room. They honed in on Mark and Paul with guns drawn. Mark lifted his hands in response to the guns pointed at him.
One of the officers hovered over the paramedics. “What’s the situation here?” he asked.
A paramedic stood up and faced the officer. “She’s overdosed, apparently on sedatives. She’s also taken quite a beating.” He pointed at Paul. “That one says she was kidnapped.”
“This is a medical emergency,” one of the paramedics kneeling over Rachel said. “There are too many people in this room. You need to take this outside, now.”
One of the officers in front of Mark held his gun steady on Mark’s chest. “Turn around and get against the wall, now. Put your hands high up on the wall.”
Mark raised his hands above his head. When he finished turning toward the wall, one of the officers ran his hands over his body to search for weapons, while the other officer recited the Miranda warning. The officer pulled down Mark’s arms one at a time. Cold steel clamped down on his wrists, and shock waves rippled through his body.
As the officer rotated Mark back around, Paul protested, “You don’t have to arrest him. He was kidnapped with the girl.”
Mark ignored the rest of the argument between Paul and the officers. He focused instead on the paramedics. Frustration bubbled inside him as he tried to translate the terms and lingo they threw around.
The officer gripping Mark’s arm tugged him in the direction of the door. As they neared the door, a paramedic announced Rachel stopped breathing and they were starting CPR.
Mark struggled against the officer that led him away. “Rachel!” Mark continued fighting against the policeman to watch the paramedics work to revive Rachel. Another officer grabbed Mark and helped the first officer drag Mark from the room.
Chapter Sixty-seven
Mark jerked awake. Though his eyes were open, the images from the final scene at the estate continued playing on a screen behind his eyes. It had been another sleepless night, having drifted off two or three times, only to be woken by nightmares.
His reluctant body climbed out of bed, and he wished he could grab one more hour of sleep. He knew it would do no good to close his eyes again. Sleep would continue eluding him, as it had ever since he left the estate in the back of a police car five days ago.
He stretched and tried to shake away the drowsiness, but ended up moaning with pain. His hand reached for the bruise that covered most of his left side. The doctor at the hospital said he was lucky none of the three broken ribs punctured his lung, although the x-rays showed two of them came close.
Mark shook off the pain and picked up the remote control to mute the television he left on all night. He showered and dressed, every mundane movement now arduous and insignificant. After he tied his tennis shoes, he went to the small table by the window and used the motel phone to call a taxi.
He sat back down on the edge of the bed and stared at the silent pictures of the morning news broadcast. His obstinate body resisted movement, exhaustion reaching into his joints and gripping them like a vise.
A picture of Jonathan Thomas flashed in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. Mark picked up the remote from the bedside table and pressed the up arrow for the volume.
“...story we have been following very closely. We recently reported on the three year anniversary of the unsolved murder of prominent businessman Jonathan Thomas...”
Another name Mark never wanted to hear again. Why couldn’t the media give it a rest? The man was dead and they acted like he was a saint.
Mark turned off the television and tossed the remote on the bed. He stifled his thoughts, knowing that being jealous of a dead man was more than ridiculous. Jonathan had done nothing but try to help Rachel when he was alive. His conflicting thoughts about Jonathan originated from his own personal desire to keep her safe, something he was unable to do.
At the table, he picked up the telephone receiver again and dialed. Greg answered on the first ring. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Mark said.
“How are you? Anna’s worried about you.”
“Tell her to stop worrying.”
“I’m worried, too, and so is James, and everyone else here. Did you finally sleep last night?”
“Not much.”
“You’re going to make yourself sick. With those broken ribs, you need to take it easy so you can heal. You should take something to help you sleep.”
The last thing Mark wanted was a sedative, at least not while the image of paramedics working on Rachel still lingered in his mind. He even refused a prescription for pain medication, despite his broken ribs making every breath and every movement a painful chore.
“I’ll be fine,” Mark said into the phone. “Stop being so overprotective.”
“It’s my job. Do you have enough clothes? Do you need me to wire you more money? You should probably get one of those disposable cellphones to use until you get home.”
Even though Greg meant well, his words reminded Mark of his helpless state. “I have plenty of clothes, and no need for more money or a disposable cellphone. You wired more than enough for food and clothes, and you’re already paying for the motel room. You and Anna have done way too much, and I’ll pay you back every dime as soon as I get home.”
“The only way you’re paying us back is by coming home safe,” Greg said. “When is the memorial service?”
Mark bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hand. “Tuesday morning.”
“So you’ll be back in Wichita by then?”
“Yeah,” he replied. He pulled back the dusty, motel colored curtain and peered outside. His taxi waited by the curb in front of the motel’s lobby. “I have to go.”
“Call me later tonight and we can talk some more. If there’s anything you need in the meantime, let Anna and I know. We’re here for you.”
“Thanks, Greg.” Mark replaced the handset in the cradle and shoved the keycard to his motel room in his front pocket. He picked up a small gift bag from the table, and left the room. He double-checked the door to make sure it was locked.
Mark slid into the backseat of the taxi. Pulling the door shut took more strength than he had. He melted into a seat laced with the scent of too many passengers and not enough cleanings. Sunlight streamed through the window and a small rainbow appeared by his hand, but he was uninterested in anything nature had to offer. The sun was a distraction, a disturbance. It tried make him appreciate the warmth that could heat his skin, but could never reach his soul.
The taxi reached its predetermined destination. Mark handed cash to the driver and told him to keep the change. He maneuvered through the rotating door and walked a short distance to the elevators. Mark punched the up arrow and waited, grateful no one else wanted a ride. He studied the scuff marks on his tennis shoes until he heard the ding of the arriving transport.
Mark held his breath with apprehension, and the elevator doors creaked shut after him. The tight confines of elevators never bothered him before he was locked in the room at the estate. To help stop the walls from closing in while the elevator shuddered up five floors, he kept his eyes glued to the inspection certificate.
The sudden halt of the cab jolted him. The doors opened, revealing a small group of people waiting to get in the elevator. Realizing his luck at not having to share the elevator with so many pe
ople, Mark promised himself he would take the stairs on the way back down.
An older woman in navy blue scrubs greeted Mark when he neared the nurses’ station. He recognized her kind face, but couldn’t seem to remember her name. “There you are,” she said with a smile. “She asked about you earlier, but I think she’s sleeping now. Such a sweet girl.”
“She is,” he said. “Thank you.” A second wind surged through his body, and he picked up his speed down the tiled hallway toward room 527. He acknowledged the FBI agent sitting outside the hospital room door, the same one who had worked the morning shift for the past three days. Mark closed the door behind him and crept over to the bed. As the nurse said, Rachel was sleeping.
The quiet beeps of the machines attached to her reminded him that she would be fine. Even the overwhelming odor of antiseptic comforted him. A clear bandage on the back of her hand held in the needle of an IV, and he glanced at it to make sure the needle was still in place, the same as he did every morning.
His eyes followed the tubing up to three bags hanging from the IV pole. Each bag dripped at various speeds, delivering measured doses of medication to her broken body. They would soon be removed one by one, as the hospital staff prepared to discharge her from their care.
Mark lifted a visitor’s chair and situated it next to the bed at an angle where he could best see her. He set the gift bag on the floor next to the bed, and collapsed in the chair. Ignoring the sharp pain in his side, he leaned forward and brushed a stray hair out of her face.
After five days, he finally saw an improvement in her appearance. Multiple bruises were still scattered across her face, but the blues and purples were fading into greens and yellows. The swelling appeared to be reduced on the right side of her mouth, and the split in her bottom lip had almost healed.
To Mark, she never looked more beautiful.
She was alive.
Having watched her sleep so much over the past few days, Mark had more than enough time to run what happened to them through his mind. More than once, he was left with the harrowing thought that Rachel tried to kill herself. If he had been the slightest bit slower in reaching her and the gun, she would have succeeded. The only thing that helped was knowing she was drugged at the time, and not in complete control of her thoughts and actions.